This poem was written as a 'proving poem' in a style and rhyme to protest at those with the tape measures and the rules - but with a dearth of imagination. It is meant to be performed, in a bright lively voice. The line stops are also voice stops

Sunday, 17 April 2011

Wath - Queen of Villages - reigned
in her flower garden
her turnip grubbing fields
her pig pens and her byres
subjects tugging forelocks
native speech a country slide
years before the pits
-
When Wigan coalpits died
the King - black in workings underground
emerged in Wath to drag her subjects down
drawing men across the border
sinking them in daylight - or forever
in his pit Blueing them beneath

Sending hunker-squatters back to meet the Queen
pandas taken from her service
surfacing - to let her scrub their backs
remove the black

Sulphur clouds as yellow as the sun they masked
Cooling towers producing clouds
reigning over sky-clouds
rolling over men-of-darkness
soaking their sons

The King was growing old
his grip slipping
Wars fought by frightened men
to keep their subjugation
failed
-
The Queen of Villages
rested by her isolation
reclaimed her subjects and her garden
threw green across mountains -
dragged black from underground -
closed cooling-towers and re-invented sky
washed her trees and bushes into blossom in the Spring
cleared the eyes and voices of her singing birds
returned her men from pandahood
moved inside their heads
blowing away the black

Cushioned them richly from poverty
but not from poverty of spirit
Taught hard lessons
Hopeless empty-handedness
Insinuating empty spaces
Acceptance of the need to learn
burning brightly in their pit-pale eyes
etching into sons let loose upon the world